


Just Don’t Think About It

by Liondaemon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Declarations Of Love, Denial, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Locker Room, M/M, Mutual Pining, OR IS IT, Slow Burn, Snape is bat like, Terence Higgs has lots of dreams, Unrequited Love, flint has glasses au, flint is repeating the year, its their final year after many years of rivalry, lots of quidditch obsession, of course, potions partners, snape unknowingly facilitated their relationship, so flint and wood are in the same classes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-01-10 21:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18416417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liondaemon/pseuds/Liondaemon
Summary: Oliver Wood and Marcus Flint are back for their final year at Hogwarts. The animosity between their houses is infamous and well-worn, and they only have one more year to beat each other and win the Quidditch House Cup. What do they have to lose?





	1. Chapter 1

Marcus exhaled through gritted teeth as he fumbled around for the newts’ eyes he needed for the next step of the potion. He grimaced as the slime from the handful of eyes dripped down his sleeve before dropping them unceremoniously into the steaming cauldron. As he did so, grey smoke began to issue from the bubbles. Marcus squinted at the blackboard to see if that was supposed to happen. Snape’s handwriting was neat but small and Marcus struggled to discern the words through the smoke-filled dungeon.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. Snape had been pressuring him to schedule in more Quidditch practises this year, and so Marcus’ life had already been wholly submerged in ideas for new plays and game strategies.

He contemplated his plan for the Slytherin Quidditch try-outs later that afternoon; he wondered if he really needed to make them all do a lap of the pitch first to ensure they could all actually fly . . . Surely that was common sense, wasn’t it? Then again, Hogwarts students weren’t known for their self-awareness.

“Fuck!”

Marcus hissed in pain. He had managed to smash the vial of newts’ eyes across the entire desk.  
Marcus winced as he gingerly took a piece of the vial out of his thumb.

“Reparo,” Marcus muttered before attempting to scoop the eyes back into the vial. The smoke from his cauldron was edging towards a dark purple. Snape caught his eye as Marcus stirred his brewing potion cautiously, and Marcus felt the familiar anxiety setting into his stomach.  
By the end of the class, Marcus’ sludgy potion was by far one of the least accurately prepared in the room. Snape only glared at him as Marcus set down his vial of dark grey potion. Marcus was always especially grateful for Snape’s bias towards his own house in Potions class, as it saved him from the verbal abuse he probably deserved.

 

Marcus trudged down to the Quidditch pitch with his utter failure of a potion weighing on his mind. His face was downright thunderous by the time he emerged from the changing room onto the pitch, and the students assembled for the try-outs seemed to move backwards as one as he approached, away from the hulking figure of the Slytherin Quidditch Captain. Marcus felt a little gratified by the apprehension he managed to instil, until he happened to glance around the stands and spotted the majority of the Gryffindor Quidditch team peering down at him.  
Marcus scowled.  
Wood had held the Gryffindor try-outs within two days of the Welcome Feast, while Marcus had waited a week to try and ensure that the try-outs wouldn’t be filled with foolish younger students trying out on a whim, buoyed by the excitement of their return to Hogwarts.  
Well-worn anger swept through Marcus as he caught Wood’s eye. The Gryffindors always liked to profess their aversion to cheating, but Marcus thought they came damn well close to it sometimes. Wood seemed to be attempting to grow a bit of stubble. The grudging anger morphed to bitterness as he glared at Wood, who glared back with equal hatred. The Gryffindor Captain was always so desperate to be seen as strong and fair, but Wood had struggled over the past couple of years not to engage with the age-old animosity between the Gryffindors and Slytherins.

Try-outs went about as well as Marcus expected. There were still a few first- and second-years who looked like they had never ridden a broom before, and a couple of hot-headed boys who disagreed with Marcus’ final decisions, but the whole ordeal was over in under three hours so Marcus labelled it a success in his mind as he packed away the equipment

He knew he should probably go over the potion he had messed up that evening, but he could feel his bed calling to him as his breath clouded in the cool night air and Marcus felt that he could easily justify an early night, if only to himself.  
Marcus was still irked by the presence of the Gryffindor team. He chewed on his tongue in irritation as he replayed Wood’s glare, his arms aching as he lifted the heavy chest of balls and turned toward the equipment shed.  
Marcus slammed straight into Oliver Wood.  
Wood groaned as Marcus put down the chest angrily, “Want to watch where you’re going Wood?” Marcus felt the anger rise easily in him, “I know it’s difficult being so uncoordinated and all,”  
Wood rolled his eyes, “I think it’s you who should watch where you’re going,” He rubbed his shoulder, grimacing, “And I wouldn’t be so cocky if I were you. Those try-outs were average at best,”  
“Sad to hear that the Gryffindor Quidditch Team have so little faith in themselves that they feel the need to spy on the other teams,” Marcus retorted.

Wood moved closer and Marcus noticed that the freckles spattering his nose had darkened over the summer. He wondered briefly if Wood had gone away over the holiday.

Wood sighed, looking down at Marcus, “It’s not spying, Flint. It’s allowed,”  
Wood was only a couple of inches taller, but it was enough to grate on Marcus’ ego so he crossed his arms, his quidditch jersey tightening over his biceps, and spat, “Doesn’t mean it’s not spying,”  
Wood shook his head in exasperation and moved past Marcus to leave the pitch, making sure to catch him with his bony shoulder on the way past.

That evening at dinner, Wood was sat directly in Marcus’ eye line. Naturally, Marcus scowled at him for the majority of the meal.  
Eventually, Adrian Pucey elbowed Marcus and asked, “What’d he do now?”  
Marcus only shrugged and grunted a non-committal noise of frustration. Pucey shrugged and glared at Wood in unity with Marcus. It was in these moments that Marcus truly understood the professors’ parroting of house unity.  
After a few minutes of eating his mashed potatoes without looking at them, Marcus rolled his eyes and dropped his gaze from Wood, before finally explaining the reason for his irritation to Pucey.

Marcus was ready to drop by the time he got back from dinner. He felt like he’d done serious training, not simply run some try-outs. He just about managed to change into pyjamas before sinking into his four-poster. The other boys wouldn’t be up to the dormitory for some time; it was still early. Hopefully, Marcus would fall asleep before Higgs tramped up to the room. Higgs was a horrific snorer. Higgs believed it was due to his crazy vivid dreams. Marcus thought it was because he slept on his back.   
Marcus closed his eyes and quickly felt the pull of sleep. Just as he was dropping off, a vision came unbidden into his mind. Freckles, spattered across a thin, pale nose. His heart raced and his eyes flew open. His cheeks were warm.  
Why couldn’t he catch a break? He needed sleep and yet his brain remained fixated on Oliver Wood and his stupid fucking quidditch team.  
Marcus buried his face his pillow and fell asleep grimacing.


	2. Chapter 2

Oliver woke up, his mind already running through game plays based on what he and the rest of the team had seen of the new Slytherin Quidditch Team. Oliver and Flint didn’t agree on much, but Oliver certainly thought Flint had selected the best of the lot, unfortunately for Gryffindor.  
Oliver yawned widely as he got dressed, considering the Beaters Flint had chosen. They were burly, sure, but not the muscled thug-types Oliver expected him to choose. Flint himself was bigger and burlier than both of the new Beaters.  
It was only when Oliver caught sight of Flint at breakfast, where he sat with a foul expression on his face as he listened to Terence Higgs describe a dream, that Oliver remembered his run-in with Flint on the pitch yesterday. Flint looked up at that moment and glared at Oliver, who simply rolled his eyes as he sat down next to Alicia and struck up a conversation with her about his ideas for plays against the new Slytherin team.

Oliver was late to Potions. He’d had a free period and got lost in sketches for a new formation for the Chasers that he wanted to try out later. He burst into the dungeon at top speed, bag swinging ludicrously, breathing harshly.  
Snape raised a withering eyebrow, “How kind of you to join us, Mr Wood,”  
Oliver swallowed hastily, “Sorry, sir,”  
Snape shook back his sleeves as he turned to the blackboard, “I’m sure. Sit down next to Mr Flint and we’ll see how sorry you are,”  
Oliver sighed but obeyed. As he glanced quickly around the room, he noticed that everyone was obviously seated in pairs. Flint must have been the only one without a partner. Just Oliver’s luck.  
Flint scowled darkly without turning his head as Oliver took the seat beside him.  
Snape finished writing the instructions up on the board and set them to work.  
Neither Oliver nor Flint moved.  
Oliver huffed, “I guess I’ll go get the ingredients then, shall I?”  
He didn’t wait for Flint to respond and headed off toward the store cupboard.  
When he returned, he was mildly surprised to see Flint reading the instructions on the board, murmuring them under his breath. He jumped when Oliver placed the ingredients on the desk.  
“Deep in thought?” asked Oliver as he set about weighing the ingredients. Flint rolled his eyes and muttered something to himself.  
“What was that?”  
“Nothing,” grunted Flint.  
Childish, though Oliver grumpily.  
Suffice to say, they messed up the potion. Neither of them were capable of leaving the other to their own devices; Flint immediately started correcting Oliver over his measurements, and Oliver argued back just as indignantly before tipping half the bottle of murtlap juice into the cauldron just to spite Flint.

Oliver set the bottle back down next to the cauldron and turned back to Flint in savage triumph. Flint glared at him in utter frustration and sighed loudly before running a hand through his dark hair, pushing the waves back from his brow.  
Suddenly, Oliver’s heart was in his mouth. He exhaled roughly as he turned his warm face away from Flint, confused.

Snape did not look impressed when they handed in their vial, “And what,” he drawled, “Do you call this?”  
Neither Oliver nor Flint said a word, scowling up at Snape as he sneered, “Come back here this Friday evening for a detention where you will actually attempt to brew the required potion,”  
Flint grimaced, his thick eyebrows drawn together in a pronounced scowl. Oliver’s stomach dropped at Snape’s words. More time attempting to work with Flint might actually kill him.

Oliver spent the rest of the week trying to put the impending detention out of his mind, but repeats of his argument with Flint, both on the pitch and in the dungeon, kept replaying in his mind’s eye. Images of Flint’s dark hair being pushed back from his brow found their way into the mix more often than Oliver would have liked.  
Oliver put it down to stress about the new Quidditch season and paranoia about what the Slytherin team were planning.


	3. Chapter 3

Marcus was pissed off. He didn’t have time for a Potions detention that he only had because Wood had been a dick about the measurements. Stupid Wood and his stupid freckles. Marcus had noticed them again that day, his stomach fluttering as Wood peered down at him from his extra two inches of height. _You’re_ _just_ _paranoid_ , thought Marcus frustratedly, combing a hand through his hair in agitation. He probably just needed more sleep. He hadn’t slept well despite the early night. 

 

That Friday, Marcus made his way to the Potions dungeon slowly, almost dragging his feet. When he arrived, Wood was already standing outside the door looking fidgety. Marcus scowled at him as his stomach did that strange swooping motion again, but Wood only looked oddly nervous, almost uncomfortable.

Before either of them could speak, Snape appeared in the corridor behind them. “Get inside,” he ordered as he unlocked the door. As Snape unlocked the store cupboard, he sneered, “I’d like to think even you two imbeciles can survive the hour and a half it will take you to brew this potion alone. I will be in my office should one of you kill the other,”

Snape eyed them both before sweeping out the door.

Marcus and Wood glanced at each other. This time, they both gathered the ingredients from the cupboard and set about the measurements for the second time.

Inevitably, Marcus snapped first, “That’s not the correct amount, Wood,”  
Wood frowned in irritation as he measured out the murtlap juice, “It doesn’t have to be exact, Flint,”  
Marcus cocked an eyebrow, “Pretty sure accuracy is the whole point of this stupid subject,”  
Wood rolled his eyes magnificently before sighing, “What is the exact measurement then, Flint?”  
Marcus shoved on his glasses before peering at the textbook and grunting, “325 ml,”  
Wood bent back over the measuring cylinder, decanting a small amount of the juice back into the bottle before pouring the remaining fluid into the heated cauldron. The liquid hissed and pink steam began to issue from the cauldron, just as described by the textbook.  
Satisfied, Wood reached for the next ingredient, “What about the essence of dogwood then?”

 

They continued like that, Marcus reading the instructions out and Wood doing as he said, with Marcus making a few corrections or advisements here and there. They were well on their way with the potion when Wood glanced over at Marcus and did a double take.  
Marcus frowned, “What is it, Wood? Something on my face?”  
Wood coughed, “I, uh, didn’t know you had glasses,”  
Marcus felt his cheeks heat up. He has forgotten he had those on. He didn’t usually wear them in class; he generally didn’t need them in class because the professors wrote up the textbooks on the blackboards. Besides, he wasn’t particularly interested in the mockery that would ensue. There would be a lot of jokes about his relation to Potter, that’s for sure.

Wood was still looking at him.   
Marcus only shrugged in response.

* * *

 

Oliver scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. They had finished the potion and it seemed to be fairly decent. Oliver was surprised at how good a team they had made. He had thought Snape’s snide remark about them killing each other would have been much closer to the truth.

When Snape stepped back into the dungeon he made no comment. They handed him the vial of potion but he only sniffed in approval before both Oliver and Flint got out of there as fast as possible, neither of them wanting to be stuck with Snape for longer than was absolutely necessary.

There was an odd sort of silence between them as they made their way to the Great Hall for dinner. They didn’t speak for the entirety of the walk, but there seemed to be a strange sort of understanding between them.

Oliver remembered Flint’s glasses. They had made him look older, and different somehow. Softer. Oliver shook his head a little. His brain was really quite unhelpful sometimes.

As they turned the corner to enter the Great Hall, Oliver felt his fingers brush Flint’s. Tingles shot up his arm and he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He shivered and strode quickly over to the Gryffindor table, eager not to think about exactly what he was feeling. He didn’t look over at the Slytherin table for the whole meal, but his fingers were still tingling.

Wood got ready for bed slowly that night, his mind still busy with thoughts of Flint. He couldn’t stop picturing Flint in those wire frames, bent over the text book, dark strands of hair falling over his forehead as he read out the instructions. His mind flashed to their run-in on the pitch; Flint glaring up at him, his quidditch jersey tightening over his crossed arms. Flint was shorter than Oliver but broad-shouldered. Burly, even. Oliver groaned and buried his warm face in the coolness of his pillow.

A sudden thought passed through his mind, imaginary this time; Flint’s rough voice whispering _Oliver,_ tanned skin and dark eyebrows, those wire frames inching closer . . .

All the blood in his body rushed straight to his groin.

 

Oliver might have a problem.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Marcus groaned as his alarm went off. His head ached, but he could not understand why he was sleeping so badly.  
He felt particularly tetchy as he made his way down to breakfast. He spied Wood over at the Gryffindor table, stuffing his face with eggs and bacon. A spike of irritation ran though Marcus as he sat down at the Slytherin table next to Higgs, who was in full swing of the recollection of yet another dream. Marcus attempted to tune him out as he stared around the Great Hall, but that only led to him catching sight of Wood across the room again. Marcus was sick of him. He was sick of all of it: stupid Potions, stupid Wood, stupid Higgs and his stupid fucking dreams. Marcus just wanted a good night's sleep and a passing grade. Was that really too much to ask?  
Marcus was halfway through his second piece of toast when he happened to glance across the room again, and this time Wood was looking back at him. Marcus scowled instinctively, but Wood didn't even seem to realise he had been staring. After a few seconds, Marcus' glare shifted from irritation to bafflement; Wood started and looked embarrassed. Marcus felt his neck prickle as paranoia started to kick in.  
Stupid Wood.

Marcus trudged down to Potions after breakfast and took his usual seat. The classroom was filling up with students strolling in after breakfast. Wood entered the dungeon hesitantly, glancing at Marcus before making his way over to a couple of Gryffindors on the opposite side of the room.

“And where do you think you're going, Mr Wood?"  
Snape swept into the dungeon behind Wood and was now standing at the head of the class, enchanting the chalk to scrawl instructions on the blackboard.  
Wood sighed and turned around. He looked as tired as Marcus felt.   
 _Maybe it's Quidditch_ , thought Marcus absently.   
Wood squinted at Snape in confusion; it seemed it was too early in the morning for Wood to form sentences. Marcus smirked.  
Snape smiled grimly, "Your partner is over there," He gestured at Marcus, who felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.  
Wood seemed to feel the same. He stared at Snape for half a second before resigning himself to his fate and dragging his feet over to where Marcus was sitting. As Wood slumped down next to him, he said, "Guess we're partners for the term then, huh?"  
Wood's voice was soft, his mild Scottish accent pushing through his half-whisper. Marcus turned to look at him, but Wood seemed to be very determinedly _not_  returning his glance.  
Marcus shrugged, "Guess so," Marcus' skin prickled again; his voice seemed especially rough when it followed Wood's smooth one.

Snape set them to work on yet another potion that Marcus was sure they would mess up. If they were lucky, maybe they'd get another pointless detention.  
He was scowling as he peered at the blackboard, attempting to work out the first line of instructions when he realised Wood hadn't moved. Marcus glanced over and caught Wood staring at him again.  
Before Marcus could ask, Wood blurted out, "Why don't you wear your glasses if you can't read?"  
Marcus scoffed, "You'd love that wouldn't you?"  
Wood's eyes widened, "What are you talking about?"  
Marcus rolled his shoulders in irritation, "Another thing for the Gryffindors to make fun of? Need new material for the next game?”  
Marcus huffed and strode over to the ingredients cupboard. To Marcus’ relief, Wood didn’t make any other comments for the rest of the lesson.

Marcus' jaw unclenched a little as he made his way into the History of Magic classroom. History of Magic was the only subject where Marcus felt pretty capable. It wasn’t that he loved the class, it was just that he hated History of Magic a little less than he hated all his other classes. Binns was still a bad teacher, but at least the reading was interesting and Binns didn't try and make them interact with each other. Snape could learn something from him.  
But Marcus found his mind wandering today. He thought back to Potions; he and Wood had actually managed not to screw up the potion this time. Marcus grimaced as he remembered Wood’s questions about his glasses. Marcus could have kicked himself for wearing them in the detention. Snape had seen him wearing them dozens of times in meetings about the Quidditch team, and the letters on the page had been blurry enough from exhaustion alone, never mind his crappy eyesight. Marcus sighed. Wood would just have to get over himself. Oliver would probably forget about it soon. It wasn’t like Marcus was the only one stressed about Quidditch.  
He wandered if Wood was losing sleep as well.

 

The term crept by slowly. Marcus was yelling himself hoarse at every team practise, and fell asleep replaying the sessions in his mind every night. Marcus kept bumping into Wood all over the place. He had known he shared a lot of classes with Wood, as their rivalry over Quidditch had lost him a lot of house points. However, recently Marcus had found his glaring to be one-sided, as Wood's mind seemed to be constantly wandering. Marcus supposed it made the Potions classes easier to handle.  
He and Wood were actually doing far better than he had expected in Potions. Marcus read the instructions and made suggestions as he went along, keeping his clumsy hands away from the delicate equipment, and Wood followed his advice and did most of the practical stuff. They were managing to not bite each other’s head off every lesson, and as a result had managed to be fairly successful with their potion-making. Marcus was grateful to have another subject where he could rely on a passing grade. He was already repeating the year, and his stress levels didn’t appreciate it.  
Marcus’ stomach still swooped when he looked at Wood, and his spine still tingled every time their fingers brushed, but Marcus put that down to insomnia and the strangeness of interacting so normally with someone he had spent years screaming at on the pitch.  
  
It was nearing Christmas. Dustings of snow coated the grounds every morning, and it wouldn't be long until it was up to their ankles.   
Marcus and Wood were working on a fairly standard potion when Wood commented, “Weather’s been pretty good recently, eh?”  
Marcus glanced up, startled by the break in the silence they had become so accustomed to.  
Wood cleared his throat and looked back down at the potion he was stirring, 'I mean, this late in the term you'd be expect to be swimming in snow. Lucky for Quidditch, s'all I meant,"  
Marcus nodded slowly, “Yeah,”  
Wood continued to stir the potion, “The team must be happy,”  
Marcus frowned, “Uh, yeah,” he coughed and gestured unnecessarily towards Wood, “Yours too,”  
Wood smiled faintly in response.

 

A few days later, Wood grumbled, “Morning,” as he sat down next to Marcus in Potions.  
Marcus grunted in response.  
A few moments later, Wood asked, “Can you believe the line-up of the Holyhead Harpies for next season?”  
As Wood rummaged through his bag for his textbook, Marcus watched the back of Wood’s school shirt rise up his back, revealing freckled skin, even that far down. He felt his stomach flip. Marcus nodded, swallowing, “They're going to be tough to beat,”  
Wood sat back up having found his textbook and grinned at Marcus, “Are we really surprised?”  
Marcus bit back his instinctive smile, “Gwenog Jones has always been a tough player,”  
Wood nodded, “Bet she’s as tough a captain,”  
At that moment, Snape practically flew into the room, his robes billowing around him in typical bat-like fashion, and the conversation ended.

There were many short-lived snippets of conversation, and to Marcus’ horror, he found himself almost looking forward to Potions class on the off-chance that Wood would make some comment about a particularly risky play from the previous night's league game, or an interesting change of players between teams, or - and these were the most frequent - when he thought that the referee had been unfair.  
“But it’s obvious McGee shoved him off! You can see him move his leg!”  
Marcus rolled his eyes good-naturedly, “Shove is a strong word for what was  _at most_ a small nudge,”  
Wood’s eyes widened, mouth agape in mock horror, “A 'small nudge’!? McGee intentionally shoved Rogers off his own broom!” Wood abandoned the potion for a moment, turning to face Marcus. His hands were on his hips and Marcus smirked at Wood’s indignant stance.  
Wood narrowed his eyes, “But of course _you_ would allow cheating. How else would Slytherin ever win the cup?”  
Now it was Wood’s turn to smirk, smugness glimmering in his eyes as he turned back to their potion, .  
Marcus stood up and leaned into him, and Wood's face quickly lost its glee.  
“How sad it is that you have to resort to accusations of cheating to account for Slytherin’s success,” Marcus said in a low voice.  
Wood slowly turned his face a fraction of an inch towards Marcus’ and opened his mouth to reply when Snape swooped down on them, “Would you two mind keeping the animosity outside the classroom? Or do I need to set you another detention?”  
Marcus sat back down heavily as Wood continued working on the potion. They glanced at each other, and Marcus chuckled at Wood’s clear frustration that he got the last word.

 

That weekend, Marcus had to go to the library to find a book for Potions. It was still early, but harsh Quidditch practises had put him in the habit of waking early. Golden light limned the wooden shelves as he climbed a ladder to search along the top shelf. He longed to be outside; he could hear the birds twittering through the dusty sky lights. Maybe he would grab the book and head out for a quick ride, seeing as no one else was around.

Eventually, he found what he was looking for and strolled back through the library. He was heading through the History of Magic section when he caught sight of Wood sitting at the end of one of the aisles. Marcus felt his heartbeat speed up. He quickly turned in the other direction before Wood could spot him, but today was not his lucky day.  
Wood glanced up and caught Marcus’ eye mid-turn. Wood frowned. Marcus stood there as if frozen, holding eye contact for what felt like far too long. Marcus sighed heavily and wandered over, noting the array of different historical texts scattered over Wood’s desk in no discernible pattern of importance.  
Wood continued to look baffled, “What are you doing here, Flint?”  
Marcus raised his eyebrows, “Same reason as you I expect,” Wood looked distinctly uncomfortable as Marcus picked up one of the books in disgust, “Why are you reading _these_?”  
Wood groaned, stretching his arms behind his head in exasperation, “Mcgonagall set us this horrific essay on the history behind the emergence of Transfiguration as we know it today. As if I didn’t drop History of Magic for a reason,”  
Marcus rolled his eyes at Wood's melodrama. He took in the titles of the various texts covering every inch of the desk, before turning to scan the shelves.  
“Well,” said Marcus, reaching up to pull out a lighter volume than what Wood had been pouring over, “Maybe it would help if you started with something a bit less mind-numbingly dull?” He held out the slim modern edition to Wood with an eyebrow raised.  
Marcus almost laughed at the dumbstruck expression on Wood’s face. He reached out to take the volume as though he didn't trust that this wasn't some elaborate means of pranking the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, but Marcus didn’t let go straight away, making a split-second decision.   
He leaned in and murmured, “I’m not just good at Quidditch, you know,” before relinquishing the text and leaving Wood alone behind his stacks of dusty books.

 

Marcus went out on his broom for an hour before heading inside to try and finish off that Potions essay, but it still proved difficult. It didn’t help that Higgs had enlisted an unwilling Pucey to re-enact his latest dream for the whole common room. Eventually, Marcus gave up on Snape's ridiculous question and watched Pucey trip spectacularly as Higgs tried to demonstrate that the Venemous Tentacular really had it out for him. At least, in his dreams.  
  
Marcus couldn’t sleep that night, or the next. He could not understand what it was that was irritating him so much. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch in the back of his mind.

 

The following Monday evening, Marcus took the team out for practise. Unfortunately, the beautiful sunlight had ceased, and the true Scottish weather had emerged in all its misery. He could barely make himself heard over the torrential rain and Marcus struggled to get the team to focus on the new plays he had been planning to try out.  
Eventually, everyone was too cold and wet to be of any use, and Marcus sent them all back to the castle. He had never seen them move so fast; if only they had the promise of warmth and food to incentivise them on the pitch.  
Marcus was frozen to the bone and grumpy as hell by the time he made it to the empty changing rooms. He stripped off his sopping robes and quickly replaced them with warm, dry clothes, shivering. As he changed, Marcus caught sight of a spare set of Quidditch robes slung on the side. Someone must have left them behind. A Gryffindor, going by the gaudy colours.

Marcus went over and picked them up, rubbing his arms to get his circulation working again, only to see Wood’s name stitched onto the back. Marcus chuckled to himself, imagining Wood yelling at the rest of his team not to forget their robes as they left the changing rooms, only to forget his own.  
Marcus had a sudden unbidden image of Wood taking off his robes, that pale stretch of freckled skin, water streaming down his naked torso as he ran his hands through wet hair after a particularly tough match.

Marcus exhaled hard. He dropped the robes like they had burned him and ran a hand through his own damp hair.  
That was it.  
That was what had been bothering him.  
That was what had been making his stomach churn in Potions.   
Marcus remembered his run-in with Wood that weekend, how he had leaned in and murmured in Wood’s ear before striding off, full of smug confidence at having one-upped the Gryffindor Captain. Wood’s panic-stricken face flashed before his eyes. Marcus had the horrible feeling he had been flirting with Wood without realising. Smiling, laughing, _teasing_.  
Marcus couldn’t feel his feet as he fumbled his shoes on and trudged back up to the castle in the freezing rain. He didn’t bother with dinner, ignoring Higgs’ desperate plea in the common room for a third person to recreate the Devil's Snare he had fought in his dream, stomping straight up to his dormitory and falling face-first into his pillow.  
It seemed that now this secret had been unlocked from his subconscious, his brain was eager to flood his mind with images of Wood.  
Marcus fell asleep panicking over just how he was so suddenly, so _keenly_ aware of the number of freckles that decorated Wood’s nose, pissed off at Wood for having such a goddamn pretty face.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Oliver had realised he was a _little_ attractedto Flint. But that was fine, he could deal with attraction. It was only physical, after all. The Potions lessons had been only slightly torturous, but Flint's continued hostility towards him had been dependable, and so Oliver survived this blip in his own judgement.  
  
That is, until Flint found him in the library. Until Flint found him in the library, and in one sweeping glance at the books Oliver had picked out, decided that he, Marcus Flint, knew better. And what killed Oliver was, he had been absolutely right. The modern edition was clean and concise, referencing every single tome laid out on Oliver's desk, before breaking down the jargon into recognisable modern English. That book had saved Oliver's essay, and that wasn't even the worst part.  
The worst part was that Flint had thought it appropriate to the situation to lean into Oliver, to bring his body heat  _that close_ to his own, to send shivers racing across Oliver's skin as he tried to make his brain kick back into gear. And then Flint had the audacity to whisper in his fucking ear _,_ "I'm not just good at Quidditch, you know."

Oliver tried to stifle his groan as he let his head fall back. Clear afternoon light shone through the high windows of the library. Oliver could have been done with this essay hours ago, if not for 'I'm not _just_ good at Quidditch, you know'. Oliver could feel the smugness radiating off of Flint as he had practically sauntered away, clearly proud of himself for making Oliver feel very embarrassed at his presumptions about Flint's intelligence, and _very_ turned on. Not that Flint knew about that second one. Flint would never come near him again if he had any inkling as to Oliver's feelings.  
What else was Flint good at, exactly? Of course, Quidditch and, apparently, History of Magic, but ideas flooded Oliver's mind of precisely what else Flint might be good at and he had to put an end to those thoughts very quickly because he really couldn't get an erection in the middle of the library. It was so very far from the Gryffindor Common Room.

Finally, Oliver finished his essay. As much as he tried, he could not quite banish the thought of burly, Quidditch-playing Marcus Flint in those wire frames, reading enough history books to know the library section _that_ well. Oliver sighed heavily, and dragged himself back to the common room. He had a practise planned for that evening, and wanted to take a nap before then. Flint was exhausting him.

 

For the next few weeks, Oliver worked the team pretty hard, even by his standards. He found himself shouting until his throat hurt at every practise, his morale speeches deviating towards outright threats if they didn't remember new plays, new tactics, new formations. Oliver threw himself into Quidditch even when he wasn't on the pitch, reading and planning and strategising until his eyes ached.

He hadn't seen Flint in over a week other than in Potions class, and Oliver felt like he might be calming down. He couldn't stand the way he felt like he might burn up around Flint. Like everybody around Oliver was rushing and Flint was the only thing standing still. Like the eye of the storm.  
Oliver huffed. Flint still kind of hated him. Their conversations in Potions were half-hearted efforts on Oliver's part, whose nervous energy made him desperate to say something, anything, to dispel his own thoughts. Oliver was grateful he hadn't seen much of Flint lately.   
  
One particularly gruelling Saturday, Oliver attempted to put the team through their paces. The team complained even before they were out on their brooms, and the weather grew only worse as they set out on their warm-ups. The freezing rain changed to hail, pounding the team and blurring their vision to the point where the bludgers were hitting the Beaters more often than their bats. Eventually, Oliver called it a day. The team thanked him and fled to the changing rooms, leaving Oliver to clear up the pitch alone.

"Dicks," Oliver grumbled to himself as his face grew numb from the relentless hail. He returned the balls to the case and locked up the equipment before making his way over to the changing rooms. They were empty, the team having got changed in record time. Oliver dumped his broom by the benches and got in the shower, wincing as his limps unfroze. His muscles fizzed as his circulation returned to normal.  
He spent slightly longer than necessary under the hot water, hoping the hail would have at least lessened by the time he had to walk back to the castle.  
  
Oliver shivered as he turned the shower off, cold air pricking at his wet skin. He quickly shoved his boxers on with his back to the door. Oliver whipped around when he heard it unlatch, and saw Flint stomping in, soaked through.  
"Flint? What the fuck are you doing here?!" Oliver yelped, embarrassment fuelled by the frustration of the failed practise forcing his voice up an octave.   
Flint had stopped stock still, staring at Oliver.

"Practising," he bit out, looking extremely pissed off, "What does it look like I'm doing?"  
Oliver had no response for that. He was still breathing heavily from the cold and the shock, the sound of his frantic breaths filling the air between them. Oliver could feel the blush creeping up his neck and hurried to grab his jumper from the bench.  
Flint watched for a moment and swallowed.

He glanced out of the small window, "Already given up, huh?" He crossed his arms over his broad chest, "Well, can't imagine practise can do a team like yours much good. Not when there's so little hope for them already,"  
Oliver felt the blood rise to cheeks, awkwardness falling away as indignance took over, "Fuck off, Flint,” The pent-up frustration from the practise and Flint’s intrusion urged him on, “It's not like Malfoy would play in this weather. At least my team isn't a bunch of spoilt brats relying on money and influence to win them the cup,"

Oliver knew it was a low blow. It was well-known in their year that Flint was that rare Slytherin whose family was neither wealthy nor influential. Oliver remembered watching how much Flint had treasured his Nimbus 2001.  
  
Flint snarled, baring teeth, and took a few steps towards Oliver, "The fuck did you just say to me?'  
Oliver swallowed shakily and reached for his jeans to have something to do with his hands. Before he could reach them, Flint had taken another step closer.  
Oliver could feel his breath on his face and frantically tried to quiet any desire he felt for Flint to move closer still. He was right up in his face now, and Oliver was grateful that he still had a couple of inches on Flint. The sound of their heavy breathing filled the room as they glared at each other.  
Oliver licked his lips nervously and felt his stomach drop as Flint's eyes flicked down to watch the movement. Oliver’s heart pounded. He parted his lips in trepidation and Marcus moved imperceptibly closer.

Oliver had always been one to just take what he could get. He leaned in, closing the gap between them  

Oliver moved his mouth against Marcus' for barely a second before Marcus pushed him up against the wall. They kissed roughly, breathing into each other's mouths as they shoved their hands up each other's shirts. Oliver ran his hands up the hardened muscles of Marcus' back before moving his hands into his dark hair and holding on. Marcus settled his hands on Oliver's sharp hip bones as he licked inside Oliver's mouth. Oliver shivered and grazed Marcus’ lips with his teeth. Marcus moaned softly and Oliver felt the sound reverberate through to his very core. Slowly, Marcus moved his hands round to Oliver's arse, and Oliver moaned deeply into his mouth. He felt Marcus grin against his lips and decided to best him at his own game, and felt for Marcus' belt.  
Marcus' breath stuttered as Oliver slipped his hand inside Marcus’ boxers. Oliver took Marcus’ bottom lip between his teeth, and Marcus lifted an arm to lean on the wall beside him, boxing Oliver in on one side, their bodies sliding against each other. Marcus slipped his hands easily inside Oliver's boxers and began to stroke his hardening erection. Oliver inhaled sharply against Marcus’ lips, and they began to move in sync, desperately seeking release. Their pace increased as they chased their own pleasure by setting the pace for the other. They were frantic, barely kissing each other anymore, leaning in to each others' necks with open mouths. Oliver shivered again as Marcus blew on his damp neck.   
"I'm close," Oliver breathed out, and felt Marcus nod, panting.  
Marcus twisted his hand expertly as he stroked Oliver, and that tipped him over the edge. Oliver’s mind flashed white as he felt Marcus hands on him, his lips still mouthing at his neck, teeth grazing his skin.

”Marcus,” Oliver moaned, arching against the wall. Marcus came with a gasp, and Oliver kissed him deeply, biting and licking into his mouth.

They stayed there, breathing together, Marcus crowded round Oliver. It could have been seconds or minutes or barely even a moment, and then Marcus wiped his hand on Oliver's boxers and took a few uncertain steps back. He was looking deliberately at the floor. Oliver watched him silently. When it became clear that Marcus had no intention of speaking any time soon, Oliver vanished the mess and pulled his jeans on.

The thunder of the hail had faded, leaving only deafening silence. After what felt like an age, Marcus nodded, seemingly to himself, and left the changing room.

Oliver watched him go.


	6. Chapter 6

"Shit," Marcus kicked the side of one of the stands as he strode away from the changing rooms, "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,"

His mind was racing, replaying the scene in his mind, flashing image after image before his eyes: Oliver's hands under his shirt, in his hair, down his _trousers_.

Marcus was breathing hard by the time he reached the castle. He was still soaked through, but his skin burned. How could he have been so stupid?

He trudged down the stairs to the Slytherin Common Room, nodding at the portrait who swung open with his usual sly wink. He stomped all the way to his room and slammed the door. He slumped back onto his bed, hands covering his face. He couldn't seem to rid his mind of the feel of Oliver's damp skin under his fingers. He hadn't realised how far down Oliver's freckles went. Marcus groaned. He wanted to count every single one of those light freckles, but more than that, he wanted the  _time_ to do that, the permission to graze his mouth against each one. Marcus felt a rush of anger and exasperation and arousal. There was no way in hell that had been anything but hate-fuelled relief for Oliver, a means of dispensing with all that pent-up aggression from their rivalry, from the pressure of being the Quidditch Captains of the most competitive houses.

Marcus felt the dawning sense of dread wash over him. He had just made life a whole lot harder for himself.

 

They didn't speak in Potions. Marcus read out the instructions in a monotone voice, and Oliver followed them perfectly. Marcus didn't make any suggestions, and Oliver didn't attempt any light conversation about Quidditch. Their eyes never met.

Marcus didn't see Oliver around much besides those tortuous Potions lessons, and for that, Marcus was eternally grateful. The weight of the knowledge of what Oliver felt like under his robes, of what Oliver sounded like when he came . . . It was enough to drive anyone crazy, Marcus was certain, let alone someone who had been growing increasingly attached to Oliver over the past months. It cut Marcus deep to know that they would never again have those brief moments of friendship, forgetting for a second who they were meant to be or represent. Marcus already missed Oliver's dimples; his inability to follow instructions because he was too busy coming up with some witty remark; his stupid face when he pretended to be annoyed. But Marcus would drive himself insane if he continued like this. The only thing for it was to forget it ever happened, that there had ever been any possibility that Oliver could like him, because that seemed to be what Oliver was intent on, and Marcus couldn't bear the idea of letting him see how much he cared. 

It continued like this for over a week, and Marcus struggled to put Oliver out of his mind. It was difficult when Potions lessons were so frequent, reminding Marcus of what he had lost because of his own stupidity. Why had he been so impulsive? What had driven him to believe that Oliver was a good idea? His own feelings betrayed him; because he had been falling for him. Hard.  
Marcus scowled at his History of Magic textbook. He was sitting in bed, attempting to distract himself by getting work done. He could hear Higgs detailing his extravagant new dream out in the common room, and Marcus was in no mood to join. He peered out of his window. It was dark already, but he could go for a few quick laps around the pitch, try to wear himself out. He might actually sleep tonight. 

 

Marcus practised for hours. The rain began to pound at him, and still he flew, determined to kick this feeling out him. Marcus felt hollow, his throat tight. The cutting wind was a welcome distraction.  
Eventually, Marcus' hands began to slip on the handle, his leg muscles shaking with the exertion of clamping around the broom. He landed, shivering. Marcus wiped a sodden hand over his dripping face and turned to head back to the changing rooms. Through the rain he could make out a haze of bronze hair, the blur of a pale face, and the smudge of a maroon jumper. Marcus felt his body sag with the weight of his heart. He knew that figure as well as he knew the lines on his own palm.  
Oliver began to make his way towards him, and Marcus just stood there, waiting for whatever it was that had urged Oliver to come down to the pitch in such horrific weather. Perhaps Oliver had decided that he needed to tell Marcus exactly how little he meant to him. Or even worse, it would be something hideously innocuous, something that had bothered Oliver about the timetable for the team practises that week, perhaps.  
Marcus watched as Oliver's features sharpened, the driving rain clinging to his robes. He wondered how long Oliver had been standing there, watching him.

Marcus must look a sight, hair matted by the wet, eyebrows dripping into his eyelashes. He couldn't feel his legs.

Oliver didn't say anything at first. He seemed to be taking Marcus in, the whole sorry state of him.  
Oliver frowned, "How long have you been out here?"  
Marcus shrugged, desperate to seem nonchalant but all it accomplished was another rivulet of water inside his collar, "I, uh," He cleared his throat, "I don't know, a few hours maybe?" Marcus felt watched. He shifted his feet, too uncomfortable with nerves to be mean. His shoulders ached.   
Oliver levelled his gaze at him, "In the rain this whole time?"  
Marcus' neck prickled unpleasantly. He was too tired for this, "It's distracting. Helps not to think,"  
He could have kicked himself. His brain was half-asleep, desperate to be in his warm bed, away from the rain and the pitch and Oliver Wood's pointless questions.  
"What do you need distracting from?" Oliver seemed slightly taken aback, and Marcus could feel the frustration building in his chest. He felt his gaze harden and ground his jaw. He'd said this much, might as well go all out.   
Marcus gestured helplessly, "What do you think, Oliver?"  
Oliver stared at him for a long moment, and Marcus couldn't hide the emotion in his face. He knew this was the end. There was no point denying it.

  
Oliver breathed out softly, "You idiot," and kissed him.


	7. Chapter 7

Oliver didn't really know what he had been thinking when he decided to go down to the Quidditch pitch. All he knew was that he had spotted Marcus flying in the pouring rain by himself for absolutely no discernible reason and he had needed to know that Marcus was alright. Oliver also had an inkling that Marcus was behaving oddly because of him, because of what had happened in the changing rooms a few weeks ago. Oliver knew Marcus had no interest in him, that whatever had happened in the changing rooms had just been some kind of culmination of pent-up aggression on Marcus’ part, so he felt an need to tell Marcus that everything could still be normal between them. Marcus had barely spoken to him in over a week and it was killing him. Oliver ached with the knowledge that they had been close to becoming friends, before he had gone and ruined it all.

It started hailing as Oliver stepped outside and trudged down the grounds towards the pitch. Marcus was still on the pitch, flying like a maniac through the driving rain. Oliver huffed and jogged the rest of the way; whatever Marcus was trying to get out of his system, Oliver hoped he could lift some of the weight off his mind.  
Oliver watched as Marcus lapped the pitch over and over again. Oliver felt rain drip off his upturned face as he stood there beneath him. Eventually,  Marcus slowed and made his way down to the ground, but he had yet to spot Oliver. Oliver swallowed. This was probably going to be a bit painful.

Marcus turned and halted. He had seen Oliver through the rain. When Marcus didn't move after a few moments, Oliver sighed and began to make his way over. Marcus was soaked through. His hair was plastered to his forehead and his dark eyelashes were threaded with droplets of rain. Oliver had to put a stop to that thought before his heart could tuck that image away, unbidden.   
Oliver tried for a casual opener, "How long have you been out here?" He didn't want to imply that he had been watching him too long.  
Marcus shrugged, which turned into a shiver, "I don't know, a few hours maybe?"  
Oliver felt a spike of irritation run through him, "In the rain this whole time?"  
Marcus barely made eye contact as he shifted his feet, "It's distracting. Helps not to think,"  
Oliver felt his stomach leap into his throat. _So I am the problem_ , he thought.  
Oliver's heart pounded as he asked, "What do you need distracting from?"  
Marcus stared obstinately at the ground for a long moment before finally bringing his gaze up to meet Oliver's, "What do you think, Oliver?"  
Oliver felt his chest seize up. Marcus had never called him Oliver before. Never. One of the four pillars of their rivalry had been the ridiculous use of their last names. Oliver had always told himself it was a Quidditch thing, but really it had just made it easier to try and sabotage each other.  
Marcus was looking at him like he had nothing left to lose, and Oliver felt something tangible shift in the air between them.  
  
Oliver breathed out softly, "You idiot," and kissed him.  
Marcus' hands immediately sprang up into Oliver's hair and Oliver grinned against his lips. They kissed and kissed as the rain poured, and Oliver couldn't help thinking in his giddiness as they stood there on the Quidditch pitch that this was all quite perfect really.  
Eventually, they broke for air, panting. Their faces were both dripping from the rain.  
Marcus gestured vaguely in the direction of the changing rooms, "Inside?"  
Oliver nodded and Marcus picked up his broomstick from where it had fallen on the ground. Oliver felt a thrill as he realised that Marcus had dropped his broom to kiss him.  
  
They made their way into the changing rooms and Marcus shut the door firmly before turning to face him. The spontaneous energy Oliver had felt in the moment was gone, and now they were left looking at each other awkwardly. Oliver had a moment of panic, hoping desperately that he had read the situation correctly.  
The rain hammered on the roof. Oliver was reminded of the last time he and Marcus had been alone in these rooms, and knew the thought had entered Marcus's mind too.  
Marcus swallowed visibly and looked at Oliver, "Why were you on the pitch?"  
Oliver closed his eyes briefly before answering, "I just wanted to make sure you were okay,"  
He hated the desperate note in his own voice and watched Marcus for any sign of annoyance, but he just kept gazing at Oliver intently.  
"Why-" Marcus paused, "Why wouldn't I be okay?"  
His voice was harder than before and Oliver felt feverish, "Because," He threw his hands up in frustration, "Because of what happened,"  
Marcus' eyebrows were thick over his narrowed eyes.  
"In here," Oliver clarified after a moment of silence, feeling overwhelmingly stupid.  
Marcus snorted, and the tension was broken. Oliver felt relieved as Marcus scrubbed a hand over his face. He looked tired.  
'Marcus, I just-"  
Marcus interrupted him, "Did you mean to kiss me?"  
Oliver felt the blood rush to his cheeks again, "Just now?"  
Marcus blinked in confusion and then startled Oliver by laughing loudly, "I can't believe we've kissed multiple times,"  
Warmth filled the pit of Oliver's stomach, "Me neither,"   
Marcus took a few steps towards him, before placing a tentative hand on his cheek. Oliver thought he could die happy, just like this.  
Their foreheads fell together as they smiled sheepishly at each other.  
Oliver took a deep breath, "Marcus," He brought his hand up to rest on Marcus' jaw.  
Marcus let his eyes flutter closed and Oliver watched his cheeks dimple as he smiled. Marcus breathed in deeply, "I like you, Oliver. A lot. It's been killing me,"  
Oliver brushed his thumb against his skin, "Tell me about it,"  
  
Marcus huffed a surprised laugh and kissed him.  
Oliver ran his fingers over the hem of Marcus' shirt before breaking the kiss to pull it off. Oliver leaned back into the kiss and reached up to trace his spine. Oliver took advantage of Marcus' gasp at the touch and licked into his mouth. Marcus seemed to take that as a challenge. He pushed Oliver until his back hit the wall, crowding up against him. Oliver's shirt was soaked through, but his heart raced and his skin burned from Marcus' touch.  
Marcus pulled back for air, brushing their noses against each other, before tugging at Oliver's own shirt until he brought it up over his head. Oliver felt his desire for Marcus overwhelm his body, settling deep in his bones. They were both panting, Marcus' arms leaning on the wall either side of Oliver's face. Oliver ran a fingernail down Marcus' back and Marcus arched into it, barely containing a moan. Oliver grinned lopsidedly as Marcus looked at him through dark eyelashes. Marcus' tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, and Oliver watched the movement as his heart threatened to beat out of his chest. He felt a spike of desire run straight through him. Marcus chuckled softly, and wet his lips again. Oliver tried to suppress his groan as he shifted against the wall and the friction of his pants slid across his dick. Marcus held Oliver's gaze as he slowly fell to his knees. Oliver's mouth went dry. Marcus' hands were on his fly.  
"What do you want, Oliver?" Marcus murmured as he slid Oliver's trousers down.  
"I want - I want -" Oliver groaned as Marcus breathed over his clothed erection.  
Marcus raised his eyebrows at him, waiting for his answer.  
Oliver cupped Marcus' face and held his gaze, "I want you, Marcus,"  
Marcus held his gaze as he mouthed at the fabric covering his erection. Oliver watched, biting his lip to keep from moaning too loudly at the sight of Marcus Flint on his knees in front of him.  
Finally, Marcus pulled down Oliver's boxers. Oliver shivered as Marcus pressed a kiss to the inside of his thigh but his head fell back as Marcus took him into his mouth. It was indescribable. How had they managed to stumble their way to this point, despite all their stupidity and stubbornness?  
Oliver pushed his hand into Marcus' dark hair, pulling gently as Marcus swallowed him. Marcus had his eyes closed, thick eyelashes fanned out over his tanned skin. Oliver was struggling to hold on to his sanity, months of pining and frustration building up inside him.  
Marcus' tongue slid over the underside of his cock and Oliver groaned, "Marcus,"  
Marcus opened his eyes and moaned around Oliver. Oliver pulled harder on his hair and Marcus took him deeper.  
Oliver bucked his hips uncontrollably, "Marcus, I-"  
Marcus increased his pace, placing both hands firmly on Oliver's hips. Oliver held onto Marcus as he felt every fibre of his being chase his release.  
"Marcus, please, don't stop," Oliver panted, and the vibrations of Marcus' moan around his cock drove him over the edge.   
Oliver moaned Marcus' name over and over and Marcus swallowed him down, pressing kisses up Oliver's torso.

  
Eventually, Oliver opened his eyes. Marcus had stood up and was watching him with the most open expression Oliver had ever seen on his face. He looked utterly wrecked, his hair mussed up and his mouth and chin wet. Oliver leaned forward and pressed small kisses along Marcus' jaw before sucking on the soft skin below his ear. Oliver smiled as Marcus rewarded him with a full-body shiver.  
"Oliver," Marcus moaned softly as Oliver grazed his teeth against his neck. Oliver reached down for Marcus’ trousers and slowly undid his fly. Marcus put out an arm to lean against the wall, falling even further towards Oliver. Oliver pulled down Marcus' trousers and pants together, unsheathing his hard cock. Marcus breathed in sharply and watched, lips parted, as Oliver licked his hand and placed it on his erection. Marcus' breaths increased and Oliver kissed him deeply, biting his swollen lips and stroking him faster. Marcus groaned and Oliver moved his free hand up Marcus' torso and brushed his thumb over a pink nipple.  
Marcus gasped as he came, moaning Oliver's name into his mouth.  
Oliver stroked him through it before kissing him again, running his hands through his tangled hair.

 

Their joint breathing echoed in the changing rooms as the rain hammered against the roof. Marcus leant their foreheads together and smiled at Oliver.  
Oliver thought his face would splinter from how much he would be smiling from now on.  
"So," Marcus murmured, his voice gravelly, "That was, uh,"  
"It was," Oliver half-whispered back. It felt as though this was a secret for just them and the rain.  
Marcus brought a hand up to trace the freckles on Oliver's shoulder, "So this, uh, this whole liking me thing, does that mean that we, that you-"  
Oliver cut him off, "Yeah," His heart ached with want, "If you want it to,"  
Marcus nodded, "I do," He chuckled, eyes glinting at Oliver, "Gryffindor are gonna have a field day with this,"  
Oliver rolled his eyes, "And what? Slytherin are just gonna accept me into their ranks, a fellow snake after all?"  
Marcus snorted, "What an image,"  
Oliver's laugh bounced off the close walls, before he cupped Marcus' face tenderly, "What if this was just ours? Fuck everybody else,"  
Oliver watched as Marcus swallowed, his eyes glinting differently now, "Sounds good, Oliver,"  
  
Oliver felt a tightness in his throat and smiled at Marcus. He hoped it held everything he was feeling. Everything he didn't have the words to say. 


	8. Chapter 8

Marcus could hardly contain himself over the following few weeks. He thought he must be overflowing with feeling, and yet it was the lightest he had felt in months. He and Oliver would steal moments when they could, meeting in quiet areas of the grounds or up in the draughty abandoned turrets of the castle. They would kiss and fuck and talk and Marcus savoured every moment. He dreaded showing up to their meeting place and waiting, only to find that Oliver had finally realised that he was a bad idea. But he had yet to found himself abandoned. Their behaviour in Potions lessons must have seemed absurd to any outsider who cared enough to pay attention; both of them were attempting to maintain the careful level of friendship they had been working at for months, but there was no way that the ease of their synchronicity or the abrupt nature of their forced disinterest in each other was at all convincing.

In his other lessons, Marcus would lose himself in thoughts of bronze curls over pale ears, freckles disappearing below waistbands, and long fingers beneath his lips. Even History of Magic was proving unworthy of his attention by comparison. By the end of the school day, Marcus felt like he might burst out of his skin with impatience, thinking only of Oliver and what Oliver would have to say to him when they met. Sometimes they would have raging arguments over Quidditch plays and players, allowing themselves the indulgence of such passion as they would never have allowed themselves in those brief snatches of conversation in Potions. Marcus relished even in these fierce disagreements: as a man who knew what it was to starve, he would not for all the world discard any scrap he could lay his hands on.  
Every so often, the thought would enter his mind, unbidden, that Oliver did not feel as he did, that Oliver would be done with him very soon, for Oliver was a far better man than he could ever hope to be. In these moments, he would withdraw the casual touches he had grown accustomed to bestowing on Oliver as they talked for hours in private, only to find Oliver twining their hands together and squeezing more tightly than usual. It was these moments that made Marcus' chest ache. He felt so _known_. He could read the slightest shift in Oliver's features, and understand in an instant the cause of the change. Marcus mentioned to Oliver how funny it was that he had spent years studying Oliver's expressions for signs of sabotage and plots, only to employ such study in a very different respect. Oliver had laughed uproariously as he told him that Marcus had had only one expression when it came to the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and so Oliver might have some catching up to do. Marcus had rolled his eyes and pulled him in and that had been the end of that.

 

One night, Marcus and Oliver were sat with their backs against the old brick of the Astronomy tower, holding hands in comfortable silence as they gazed at the darkening sky when Oliver turned his head to look at him.  
"Marcus," He said softly. Marcus turned his head so that his cheek rested on the cold brick, their noses centimetres away.  
"Yeah?"  
Oliver's face was pensive, his eyes watchful, "Do you still have those glasses?"  
Marcus was surprised by the question, "Uh, well, yeah, I mean," Marcus grinned, "I need them to see,"  
Oliver's eyes crinkled at the corners and his dimples made an appearance as he continued, "I was just thinking, you know," He paused, "No one's going to make fun of you if you wear them in class,"  
Marcus frowned, "Be a bit weird, wouldn't it? If I started wearing them all of a sudden?" Marcus felt a little taken aback. His glasses had always been a bit of a sore spot for him, especially when he struggled so much with school.  
Oliver turned his face back to look at the stars emerging from the darkness and shrugged, "Just saying,"  
Marcus kept looking at Oliver, watching as the brightening stars were reflected in his eyes. Oliver's mouth turned into a smirk and Marcus narrowed his eyes suspiciously.  
"I remember when you put those glasses on in that detention. Genuinely thought you were trying to kill me," Oliver chuckled.  
Marcus blinked, "What?" If Oliver was trying to convince him to wear his glasses more, Marcus didn't think this was the way to do it.  
Oliver's face broke into a smile, "I couldn't stop thinking about them. About you," Oliver elbowed him, "Thought it was an intentional sabotage of the Gryffindor Captain,"  
Marcus was thoroughly baffled, "Why would you think my _glasses_ were sabotage?"  
Oliver turned his whole body towards him then, his face incredulous, "Oh come on, Marcus, you must realise,"  
Marcus' blank face seemed to convince Oliver that he was genuinely confused.  
"Marcus," Oliver climbed into his lap and cupped his jaw with both hands, forcing him to look into his eyes, "You look fucking hot in them,"  
Marcus must have had the most ridiculous expression on his face, because Oliver exhaled an exasperated laugh and kissed him deeply.  
They stayed there for quite some time.  
  
The next time they had Potions, Marcus wore his glasses.

  
  
It was the last game of the term, and Slytherin were playing Ravenclaw. Marcus wasn't too worried about the match, but that didn't mean he hadn't worked the team to the bone despite the horrendous Scottish weather.  
"This is it, the last time we're playing this term," Marcus stood in front of the team, minutes before the match was due to start, "Remember every time I made you stay out in the rain, in the thunder, in the fucking hail, and make it count, because if you don't, you'll regret it next term,"  
Marcus could have cracked up at the expressions on his teammates' faces. Malfoy looked particularly aghast.  
Marcus wore a serious expression on his face for another moment before grinning viciously, "Let's show them what we're made of,"  
The team cheered and clapped each other on the back, hyping themselves up before they set out onto the pitch. The stands were filled with students bundled up against the stinging cold, but the adrenaline pounding through Marcus' system was enough to fight off the piercing wind. He shook the hand of the Ravenclaw Captain and climbed on his broom, envisioning Oliver's face, fierce and proud. As soon as he heard the whistle, he was off. Lee Jordan's comments echoed around the pitch, but Marcus did his best to zone them out; Jordan was irritating at the best of times, and McGonagall was really very biased when it came to regulating his clear preference for whichever house wasn't Slytherin.  
The team was flying well; it seemed Marcus' reminder of the harsh conditions he had put them through this term had been a great motivator. Marcus shot the first goal, and the team seemed to flourish under that morale boost.  
The Ravenclaws were good, but they were better. After the score reached 40:10 in favour of Slytherin, Marcus became anxious for Malfoy to catch the snitch. Marcus had had serious qualms about putting Malfoy on the team a second year in a row, but his father was a terrifying force who had paid for all their brooms, and Marcus couldn't very well ignore something like that. Even so, he wished the little git would spend less time watching at Potter and more time watching old Quidditch games.  
60:40, still in favour of Slytherin, but Ravenclaw was closing the gap. What the fuck was Malfoy doing? He heard a vague shout from Jordan, and Marcus spared a glance around him; he watched, heart in his mouth, as Malfoy raced for the snitch, neck and neck with Cho Chang. Marcus glanced around him, saw that the other players were also largely focused on Malfoy and Chang, and went for the Quaffle in the hands of Roger Davies. Marcus grabbed it and got in an easy shot while the Keeper was distracted. The rest of the players refocused and the play resumed, but everyone was on edge now. Slytherin managed a few more goals, and then they heard Jordan's shout.  
Someone had caught the snitch.  
Marcus glanced around him desperately for some indication of who had won; the score had been 90:50, not enough to ensure them a win if Ravenclaw had caught the snitch. The rest of the team couldn't see far enough below them to discern the winner; Chang and Malfoy had both tumbled onto the ground in their efforts. Everyone turned to watch the scoreboard. Marcus felt his pulse beat uncomfortably in his neck.  
The numbers were changing.  _Come on_ , Marcus thought.  
240:50.  
Slytherin had won.  
  
Marcus shouted ecstatically and flew to the ground where Malfoy was triumphantly holding up the snitch. Marcus gave him a perfunctory clap on the back before turning to the other two Chasers and pulling them in for a rough hug. They looked momentarily dumbfounded before pounding Marcus on the back in return and laughing. Marcus turned around him watching his teammates wipe their faces in relief and hug each other over and over. Marcus wondered briefly if it was because they had won, or because it meant Marcus might go slightly easier on them next term.  
They were right to celebrate. The only person who should be afraid of Marcus next term was Malfoy.  
  
Marcus heard a shout to his right and saw Oliver jogging onto the pitch. His mind went quite blank in shock while his heart soared instinctively. He dazedly noticed the rest of the team back away in his peripheral vision, but Marcus had no interest in their opinions at that moment. His body thrummed with adrenaline from the match, and Oliver was grinning from ear to ear as he ran toward him. Marcus jogged to meet him and Oliver caught him in a hard kiss. Marcus barely registered the stands' descent into quiet, before they roared even louder than before. As Oliver broke away from him, Marcus watched Oliver realise exactly what he had done and blush deeply.

Marcus snorted.  
_Stupid Gryffindor_ , he thought, and kissed him again. 

 

"So I'm standing there, Gillyweed wrapped around my ankles-"  
"Gillyweed  _wrapped around_ your ankles?" Marcus asked incredulously, "Pretty sure that's not how Gillyweed works, Higgs,"  
Higgs rolled his eyes at him, "I know that, but obviously my subconscious doesn't care, does it? So, I'm wrapped in Gillyweed, right, and then a giant Mimbulus Mimbletonia starts stomping through the lake toward me and-"  
"Sounds like you've got a thing for Herbology, mate," Marcus yawned.  
Higgs sighed theatrically, "Fuck off, Flint, I'm talking to Wood, not you,"  
Marcus rolled his eyes, and let his head fall on Oliver's shoulder as Higgs continued his retelling of yet another ridiculous dream.  
Marcus promptly fell asleep, only to wake up to a reluctant Pucey standing in for the Mimbulus Mimbletonia and Oliver, barely containing his laughter, knelt behind Higgs and clasping his ankles in imitation of the Gillyweed. Marcus met Oliver's laughing gaze, and smiled sleepily, warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the fire blazing in front of him.


End file.
